No Rest for the Wicked
by Harboe
Summary: Set between season 2 and season 3. Having a sister who acts as though she was from another planet, a half-competent intern and a new killer on the loose all seems to get to our Dearly Disturbed Dexter.
1. Introduction

**1. INTRODUCTION**

Coffee, the drink of choice of the masses.  
It's undoubtedly most-used substitute for sleep. Not healthy in the long run and notoriously addictive. Still, it's not the most unpleasant part of my personality.  
Not by far.

Driving home from the airport, a fresh slide in my pocket, I can't help but think that I did the right thing.

Admittedly, I had just made an inter-continental journey to kill a woman who'd crossed those I cared about, a sentimental and undeniably foolish thing to do. The FBI manhunt was still fresh in memory, but the Dark Passenger had been insistent and even my conscious self thought that eaking Harry's Code once more wouldn't be entirely undeserved, given the circumstances.

Lila had been such a destructive force in my life, destroying me just like Paul had Rita, yet just like her I had been unable to see it until it was too late. Having someone see me like that was an interesting feeling.

Half-sick with the thrill of risking exposure at every second I'd been unable to properly realise just how dangerous this game was. It wasn't until I saw Lila's true colours that psychotic, needy personality and the fear on Astor and Cody's faces, that I realized just how stupid I had been.

It was time to remember what was most important.


	2. Memoirs

Deb can't look at me without tears welling up. I'm not quite sure why.

Was it because of Lundy? Deb _had_ been fond of him and would have been at his side if Cody and Astor hadn't been kidnapped.

Was it Doakes? Even if my sister hadn't always seen eye-to-eye with Dearly Deceased Doakes, she had taken his death hard. Harder than most surpassed – perhaps – only by LaGuerta.

Was it work? New corpses turned up in Miami on a daily basis and since Deb had been assigned to Homicide two of the most heinous serial killers of Miami history had turned out to be people she knew. That would scar anyone.

But that would have to wait.

Passing a poster of Sergeant James Doakes naming him the Bay Harbour Butcher, I walked down a familiar corridor making my way towards the Evidence Locker. On numerous occasions, the contents of the Evidence Locker have served me in properly enjoying myself on my late-night playmates. And considering I worked in forensics, I was one of the people who had made the walk down this corridor most times.

Today, though, I was on a different kind of mission.

"Hi, Dex!" Padilla said, when I arrived, beaming a not quite chaste smile at me. "Missed me?"  
"Emilia," I said in a mock-shocked voice, "You know you're the only reason I show up for work in the morning." She smiled and with our almost-ritualistic greeting of one-another over got down to business.  
"I'm going to need to take the prize of the Bay Harbour Butcher case," I said, trying to sound casual and slightly joking, "the blood slides." Padilla frowned. "I'm not comfor–…"  
"For the Feds," I said and pulled out a requisition form, which had been signed along with dozens of other forms by an overworked special agent, "They'll probably put it on a display."

Still wary, but finding no flaw in his reasoning nor in the request for gathering all case-related evidence about the former Sergeant – likely for FBI crime analysts, but the Federal Bureau had an ability to lose such things in their extensive archives – she relented in handing over the box. It had been within arms reach, as though it had been moved there; knowing it would return to its rightful owner today.

"It seems wrong somehow," she admitted as she handed it over with the same carefulness one would handle a poison viper, "our department should keep this." I looked at her, arching an eyebrow in what I intended to be a puzzled expression. "Doakes was a killer, walking among us," she continued, explaining, "and no one noticed. We need to be more careful. Watch out for this sort of thing."

Paranoia, I thought, but actually she was dangerously close to the truth. "You have to relax, Emilia," I said, taking the box out of her hand, "Go out an evening; get something to drink and stop worrying." I said, giving her a smile before I walked off, my heart pounding.

Clutching the little wooden box, the walk back to my office seemed the longest in my life. I had no reason to worry; the box had been signed out to me under the authority of the FBI. Still, it felt a dangerous risk to take for a box of trophies.

As I drove home, I kept eying at the glove compartment, where I had hidden my slide collection. It felt as though I had stolen it, even if Dearly Departed Doakes had originally stolen it from my apartment.

I probably should return the box to its familiar place, making sure it stays hidden. But my latent sentimental side must be showing, because I can't bring myself to put it back right now. Rather, I need to remember my old playmates a while.

Running my fingers over the slides, I find the one I'm looking for, an old friend: Gerry Bronson.  
Weapon of choice: Diabetic insulin.

_Gerry Bronson was a plain, respected and generous man whose spare time was spent caring for the homeless. Dexter never quite understood the need some of his 'colleagues' felt to do community work in their spare time, when most ordinary people never bothered. It seemed a horribly ineffective way to blend in, all things considered._

Still, Gerry Bronson had escaped his notice for a long time and Dexter had been beginning to question whether his instincts had failed him. But Gerry was the only common denominator between a series of deaths; they'd been found in proximity to places he worked, lived, jogged and most anything in between. The victims had all been young girls, in their late teens or early twenties.

There was always a pattern and it was that pattern that brought him to the attention of the Deadly Demonic Dexter's deadly urges.

Even if the authorities had closed the cases as accidents, some apparently believed that these young girls suffered heart attacks. Pitiful.

Dexter had the silent, unobserved nature of a dedicated hunter and even in the parking lot he wove his way between parked cars like a phantom, stalking his target. Sliding a needle into Gerry's neck seemed oddly like poetic justice, even if Dexter hadn't planned it to be so. This death wasn't to satisfy his sense of justice, merely the Hunger of the Dark Passenger. A gasp escaped Gerry's lips and seemed to echo across the lot, but no one heard and soon Dexter was showing the corpse-to-be into the trunk of the victim's own stationwagon. 'Clearly,' Dexter thought, 'our dear Gerry is a family man. His wife will be so disappointed,' he said grinning gleefully.

The Dark Passenger chuckled.

While he was driving towards his destination, an apartment of Gerry's last victim: Lea Wittenburg, a Dutch exchange-student, studying to become a professor of theology. She'd met her killer one night jogging when he'd approached her. She hadn't been interested in the twice-as-old, married man who hit on girls in the middle of the night. If it hadn't been for the red-haired Forensic Bloodspatter Analyst jogging not-too far behind the Doctor, the girl would've no doubt died there. Dexter could see it in Gerry's eyes, as he passed them.

Dexter was quite sure the Doctor would act one of the following days.

Dexter had been there to watch the Dear Degenerated Doctor do his deadly work, watching from the shadows only 100 meters from the scene of the crime. He had seen the doctor slide the needle into the back of her neck, the drunken student too inebriated to feel the needle go in. Moments later, she'd noticed the doctor and given several very unladylike comments about the doctor in her native language. The doctor had been white-knuckled with anger, but Dexter could feel the Doctor's Dark Passenger satisfaction, as the girl collapsed moments later, dead from the massive injection of insulin in her system.

It had been difficult to prepare the apartment. Not that getting the key had been particularly difficult, considering that the landlord had about eight keys per apartment, plus a few masters just in case. And since the girl's family were travelling in from Amsterdam, the apartment had been left untouched for the time being.

Dr. Bronson's eyes opened slowly at looked blurrily around the room, his head aching from the powerful tranquilliser pounding through his veins. "Wh–" he started, but his power of speech left him.

"First, do no harm," a voice spoke somewhere out-of-sight. Gerry tried sitting up, but found unexpected resistance, as if he'd been tied down... Only, it couldn't be rope, it wasn't cutting into his flesh when he fought against it, merely holding him down mercilessly.  
"Who are you?" He asked, his voice coloured with a faint hint of hysteria, "I dema–"  
"Demand? In your position?" the voice moved closer towards his field ofvision, lurking in the corner of his eye. The voice, Bronson noticed, sounded coldly amused, "No, tonight you'll be dancing my merry little tune." The voice moved into his field of vision; a young – thirty, perhaps – red-haired man, underlining his point by bringing a knife down in an arc, stopping it a hairsbreadth before Bronsons throat.  
"Wh-what do you want to know?" Bronson didn't hide his hysteria this time, as he felt cold, clean steel against his throat.  
"Why do you kill?" There was a formality over the question, Gerry noticed. It wasn't anger, curiosity or impatience, just clean, cold formality.  
"I–"Gerry said and then paused, thinking about what the stranger wanted to hear.  
"The truth."  
"I... wanted to," Gerry said lamely. "And," he continued, "to see if I could get away with it."  
"Why young girls?" the stranger asked in the same patient, formal voice.  
"I get angry sometimes," Gerry said hesitantly, writhing under the gaze of the stranger.  
The stranger smiled and moved to the table. Moments later, Gerry wanted to scream, but the stranger silenced him with a chokehold.  
The world turned black, then red.  
Then it was gone.

I replaced the slide into its familiar slot. Gerry Bronson had been a very satisfying kill and it had taken a few days before the dear doctor had even been reported missing. By then, I was sure, no one would have remembered Deeply Disturbed Dexter taking his boat from Coral Cove Marina out for a late-night fishing trip.

Sometimes I missed those days. The undeniable sense of purpose and the symbiotic relationship he had with the Dark Passenger.

Now, things were more complicated.

I returned the rosewood box to its hiding place and picked up my keys. Rita and the kids were waiting for me.

Best not keep them waiting.


	3. Ice Cream

Rita and the kids were happy to see me, as I walked through the door. It was Sunday morning and I had brought the traditional peace offering of donuts. "Dexter!" Cody cried, throwing his arms around me in a convincing display of affection, and I ruffled the scamp's hair in an equal affectionate way. "My hard worker!" Rita said, emerging from the kitchen, followed by an ever quiet and introvert Astor, who still shot me a faint smile.  
"Yeah, I know. But you know…" I said, balancing the box of donuts onto the table.  
"Something came up," Rita nodded with a smile and gave me a welcome-home kiss. There was something about coming to Rita that made me able to forget about my next victim for a while. "I just wish you didn't have to work that much."  
"Me too." I said and planted a playful kiss on her nose, distracting her from this tiresome subject. "But before the kids explode with eager, what do you say we start eating?"

The beach was warm, even for Miami and even the kids seemed to have less energy than normal, though that was certainly not for a lack of trying. I normally considered myself to be in excellent shape, but between the half-healed graze on my leg – courtesy of Sergeant Doakes – and the suffocating heat I found myself hard-pressed to keep up with even those quickly-tiring kids.  
"Mom! Dexter! Look!" Cody exclaimed with an enthusiasm becoming only for children – though Dexter noticed that the boys eyes weren't as excited as were his voice – as he pointed towards an ice-cream truck that had stopped next to the beach and starting supplying the masses with frozen treats. _'Like my brother'_ I couldn't help thinking to myself, as I looked at Rita, "My treat?" I offered.

"You didn't ask them for any Saudi flavours," I said to Cody with a wink and the boy looked up from his chocolate-chip ice cream. "Why would I do that?" he asked uncomprehendingly, much to my disappointment. He laughed when I told the joke after his presentation as far as I remembered, but then again he'd had a busy few days since then. "Hey, what's the matter?" I asked, dropping down to Cody's eyelevel. Looking Cody in the eyes, I saw something I would've never expected: nothing.  
I had seen it before, obviously, but never expected to see it in this young boy I thought I knew so well. Doakes had that emptiness in his eyes, Brian – my brother – had it and, yes, I had it.

_Hesitantly Heroic Harry was sitting on a bench not far from his foster-son. He watched his son drop into a crouch and tackle another young boy and throw the boy on his back, grabbing a hold around the boy's throat. Harry didn't move.  
He saw the calm, calculated way that his son, his monster, his punishment compressed the carotid artery of his opponent, even as he effortlessly controlled the clumsy counters his opponent attempted to make. After a few seconds – though it felt like an eternity – the opponent stopped moving, having now lost consciousness. Slowly and reluctantly, Dexters fingers loosened from the throat of his opponent.  
"Nice going, Dex." Harry said with convincing pride, though it pained him how skilled his son seemed to be at hurting people. "Go hit the showers and I'll meet you outside," Harry said and patted his son on the shoulder, before he turned and walked out of the Dojo.  
Bowing for his sensei, Dexter thanked him for the daily training in archaic Japanese, before following Harry's commands.  
Before he left the Dojo himself, though, he looked back and saw his sparring partner from before, rubbing his neck, as though Dexter's steel grip was still threatening to squeeze the life out of him. "See you tomorrow, Dex! One of these days, I'll get ya!" the graceful loser promised in a cheerful voice, as he walked out the door._

The revelation that Cody was like me wasn't all that shocking, when I thought about it. He had seen his father – Paul – beat Rita, his mother (and possibly received a beating himself, though I doubted that either Rita or Cody would ever admit to that), and such a thing was enough to make people at least skewed in their perception of the world – or so I'd read in countless psychoanalysis's – and perhaps his fathers drug-addiction combined with his sudden, violent and unexpected death at the hand of a state prison inmate was enough to push the boy into my dark corner of the world? Still, with both Rita and Astor here, none of whom (to my knowledge at least) shared these traits I couldn't exactly confront him and ask 'do you like to kill things?'  
That simply wasn't the way things were done. Harry wouldn't have approved of such obvious admission of ones Need in such a public area.  
No, it would have to wait.

Cody looked away, apparently unwilling to answer my question, and who could blame him? The desire to kill was not a thing you spoke very openly about and Cody was – for all he had opened up – a very silent kid. "Tell you what," I said in the friendliest voice I could manage, "Next weekend, I was thinking about taking the boat out for a bit of fishing," it was a lie, of course, "perhaps you'd like to come with me?" Cody grinned and I was exhilarated to find that it was the same smile I bore myself, when I was dancing Dexters Deadly Dissecting Dance. "I like fishing!" he said, with eagerness in his voice that left me no doubt about the honesty of his answer. "We'll have to ask your mother, though," I added, looking up at Rita who was smiling at us.  
"Wouldn't want to get in trouble, now would we?"

'What a terrifying idea,' I thought to myself, 'there's been another ME around without attracting my attention. I must be starting to lose it,' I added musingly, and thought of the implications of training a child to be a killer, surely it would be better to get him to counselling and rid him of the urges? No, I knew the Need would only grow and grow, until it consumed him entirely if some psychologist did nothing more than poke around and hamfistedly try to indoctrinate him into becoming a couch potato. 'No,' I thought, 'I've just become a father.'

And I looked at my little monster as he savagely attacked his ice cream.


	4. Donuts

Stepping out of the elevator, Dexter saw the familiar bullpen before him filled with the hardworking Miami Dade County police. In his right hand he held a large, white box and as he walked he made sure it stayed perfectly horizontal. "Right on time, grasshopper," Vince Masouka said, moving to meet me. I opened the white box, revealing the donuts I had brought for the day.  
"Cream-filled or raspberry?" I asked.  
"Cream-filled, of course." He said and hungrily bit into his probably-not-so-healthy breakfast.  
"Hurry up and eat yours," Vince said, his mouth still filled with his sugar-laden breakfast, "I hear LaGuerta's got an especially juicy scene for us today." He said, the donut in his hand having seemingly evaporated over the course of those few seconds. I took a donut of my own – raspberry – and dug in, considering what Masouka would consider 'especially juicy' (although, knowing Masouka's personal life, I'm sure I don't want to pursue that too much). "Meaning what, exactly?"  
"Multiple victims, initial report from the officer on-scene indicates that a bladed weapon was used," Vince said, taking a file from his desk and flipping through it. "Drug den, so we'll need toxicology. Tiretracks leading away from the hous–"  
"Wait, tiretracks? In Miami?"  
"It's not exactly down-town. It's a mud-road," Masouka explained, "Actually, I'm surprised we found the scene as fast as we did. Anyway, as I was saying: Drugs, tiretracks, blood by the bucket-load and no witnesses or suspects. A real mess," he said happily.

Masouka hadn't been kidding. There were five victims on the scene, all killed with what I suspected was a large knife of some sort. There was cocaine on the table – presumably the corpses-to-be had been sniffing when the killing began – now coloured red by the not-insignificant amount of blood, that had sprayed across the entire room. The whole scene felt as though I was back on the basic forensics-course, which in retrospect I might as well have been.  
What's this? Had a killer more skilled than him stumped the Diligent Detective Dexter, one capable of hiding his tracks in a whole new and extraordinary way that would leave our Dark Avenger slack-jawed and bewildered? No.  
Rather, I had a kid from the Academy with me who was still taking the forensics course. In theory he would only observe and his influence on my work would be minimal, but in practice he was asking so many inane questions that I found it hard to concentrate. I was used to working with professionals, a lot of them specialized in a field and able to give an expert opinion. This kid, though, Jonathan Mitchell, was more of a hindrance than a help. I'd been urged to try and give him some work-experience by giving him some of the more routine assignments that came with the job, but if his interpretations of the bloodspatter were to be taken seriously, it seemed I might as well just retire.

Bloodmisting from exhalation and bloodmisting from a beating were unmistakably different – I ought to know, having dedicated my life to it – yet he insisted that the victims had apparently been subject to a blunt force beating, this despite the light, thin sprays of blood, indicating a long knife had been used. It seemed far more likely, that the knife had penetrated their windpipe and their last few breaths had caused the mist.  
I sighed, when he reported his 'findings' to me and decided to double-check them to find the actual causes of the mist. I knelt over the corpse marked with a nice yellow sign naming him 'A' (of course no ID had come back on the victims yet, so until then he wasn't even a John Doe). I looked at the man; Hispanic, mid-thirties, dark hair, the front of his chequered shirt covered with misting. My faithful, yet incompetent partner had already taken the necessary pictures so I examined the fabric closely. Much to my surprise it seemed that Jonathan wasn't as incompetent as I had thought him to be. The blood _had_ come from a blunt-force beating, no question about it, but that left me with another question; when none of the corpses in here bore injuries that would indicate a beating then where had this mist come from? Surely, the laws of physics had not simply decided to play games with Dearly Deranged Dexter?  
Though, I admit, it would make this case a lot easier to close.

Five people dead: two Caucasians, two Hispanic and one of middle-eastern descent. One of my fellow Travellers had had a productive night a few days ago and that didn't account for another variable we'd found; the bloodmisting was AB-negative, a bloodtype none of the Dearly Departed Drug-abusing people had.

Angel Batista had earned his nickname long before any of the rest of us. For a Cuban named Batista it was probably not all that unusual to specify that you weren't related to Fulgencio Batista, but to the rest of us he was simply Angel-no-relation, a fine detective who even possessed some respect for the 'lab rats' of the force, a trait I've found mysteriously absent in a lot of officers for reasons unknown.  
Now, however he showed his extraordinary skills by crawling around after something under the sofa. "Got something!" he said, pulling back out and revealing his find. In a split-second I had to decide whether it was appropriate to break into a broad grin when I saw what he had found; a bloody stainless steel cooking knife.  
And there weren't just blood on the blade, but on the handle as well. Any fingerprint on the knife would be well-preserved and likely we'd be able to get at least a partial print, which would make this case a lot easier to solve. Of course, if whoever we pulled in turned out to not have an AB-negative bloodtype, then there would be yet another problem.  
Still, forensics would be quick on this one.

This case would be surprisingly anti-climatic it seemed. The blood on the blade had left an almost-perfectly preserved fingerprint, which Masouka had now fed to the database and was waiting for a match to turn up. The blood on the blade _hadn't_ been AB-negative, though, which left a few unanswered questions, but none that I couldn't leave up to Angel. While I was interested in finding out more about the bloodspatter and how the medium velocity impact-spatter had come to be, when the victims didn't bear any sign of a beating, but quite honestly I felt my summer had been busy enough without adding to it with yet another murderer, whose techniques left me asking questions.  
Or, that's what I thought at first, though.

"We got 'im," Angel said, pale and confused, as he handed me a folder. "Got a match for the fingerprint on the blade," he continued in a detached voice. "The guy who wielded the blade Kamal Ahmed was one of the people found dead on the scene." I frowned. "The middle-eastern one."  
"That can't be," I said, flipping to some of the pictures taken, "Based on the pattern of the blood on the ground, he was the first to go down." I said, pointing to the distinctive wipe pattern and the shoeprints of more than one of the other people in the room. "The others went down quickly, yes, but I don't think this guy stabbed himself through his own spine, killed the others and then threw the murder-weapon 10 feet under a sofa."  
Angel looked at me, helplessly, "'Thought I was going crazy. LaGuerta told me to come to you and ask if you're 100 sure about this guy going down first?"  
"Definitely. He could be a textbook case, actually."  
"'Fraid you'd say that."  
"Don't worry, Angel. We'll find out who did this,"  
"How can you take it this easy? Two of the most heinous serial killers in Miami history in fresh memory and you're not the least bit worried about another one?"  
"Actually, no. We already know a lot about what happened, that he tried to cover up."  
"We do, _socio_?"  
"Yes, we do. First, there was at least one more person present with bloodtype AB-negative – only 0,06 of people in the US has that. Either it's our killer or there were another person present, in which case we'll have a good chance of finding him between the known associates of our dear crack-heads.  
"Second, this guy clearly knows enough about forensic procedures to _try_ to keep us in the dark. Planting a false fingerprint would've worked under a lot of circumstances and if there hadn't been so many inconsistencies in the evidence, we probably would have overlooked them and simply closed the case.  
"Third, and this is most important, our guy has _technique_. He doesn't just know how to kill, a lot of people do that, but he enjoys it. It's a sport, a hobby. If you came to kill five people, wouldn't you have used a gun? This guy came in using a knife he knew would be practically untraceable, yet it's not one particularly suited for combat, killed five people up and close, wasting no movement and striking only the most vulnerable areas. He managed to stab one through the heart, sever another's spine, rip up a pair of Adams apples and leave. That implies training, probably on a tournament level. Not military, the technique is too different.  
"Fourth, he felt he had enough time to plant the fake evidence before he left. That indicates that he knew that no one would be visiting in the time it took him to plant the evidence and get out of there. Yet, he didn't feel the need to dispose of the corpses, instead leaving them for the police to find."  
"And that tells us what?"  
"This guy isn't at all like the Ice Truck Killer who flaunted his kills with an artistic flair, nor like…" I hated myself for mentioning it, "the Bay Harbour Butcher," the words tasted sour in my mouth. "Who would quietly dispose of his corpses, preferring no one to know about his work.  
"This seems at once well-planned and careless. Might even be his first kill."

"So… no hope of this guy just going away?"  
"Sorry, amigo. I think he'll be sticking around for a while,"  
"Shit."  
"I know."


	5. Implication

Something stirs in me whenever I experience something like this, more than simply the Dark Passenger. Like a wolf howling at a full moon, I feel part of something ancient, a greater unity of existence when I get a glimpse into the mind of one of my 'colleagues.'  
I suppose it's a normal human emotion to want to feel connected with those like oneself, but I hardly think it's right to judge myself by the standard one would use for human beings. Clearly I _am_ human by certain definitions, having the right genomes and correct number of appendages, but very few people consider a well-spent evening to include dumping a corpse into the Gulf Stream late at night.

The roar of the Dark Passenger was already filling my ears; the full moon was nearing and as always I longed to let the Passenger do the driving on a moonlit night. I longed to kill a man who had himself killed five people in a matter of seconds, but I had too little to go on. Oh, sure, I had plenty of evidence, but with misinformation, thrown clumsily into the carefully balanced equation that was the basis of all forensic procedures, had to be untangled first.  
A lot of my investigations don't involve forensic evidence, however, as instinct combined with access to a large database allowed a clever monster to start gathering clues. And, armed with a rare blood type, it couldn't be that hard to find, surely. And sure enough, a few minutes later, 246 subjects popped up onto my screen. Knowing that no one had popped up when he'd been run through the Florida Criminal Database had been able to commit the crime – a few being in prison, one being under interrogation and another few stationed in Iraq on military service – I removed those names from my list.  
That left me 240 people in the city of Miami who were suspect. I'd leave that list for the department's resources for that one; they'd be able to narrow it down significantly, even if it'd take weeks upon weeks. As for myself, I began cross-referencing the names on the list with members of registered martial artists. After a quick thought, I added in military personnel. The theory went, of course, that only a trained person would be able to do so much damage.  
All in all, my hunch had knocked my list down to 74 people, seven of whom were in their late-eighties and more or less immobilized in one fashion or another. An additional three were currently working abroad – one a physicist at CERN, I noticed – and I put those out of my mind for now, bringing my total down to 64.  
Not ideal, but with no witnesses and no exact time of death, it'd make do for now.

So, I ended this work for the evening and changed into a dark-green cotton shirt, that people said 'looked nice on me,' grabbed my keys off the table and walked to my car to pick up Rita for our date.

"How do I look?" Rita asked with a twirl.  
It was a silly question; of course she looked taller – it was the heels – more sensual because of the painted lips, more suggestive because of a silver dress, following every curve of her body perfectly. But one couldn't say that, I'd learned., "Radiant." I said, attempting to put some enthusiasm into it, but failing miserably. "Positively radiant." I said, smoothly disguising my response as an unexplained shock at seeing her. Which was a ludicrous thought, of course, this was _her_ house, and we'd arranged when I was to pick her up almost a week ago.  
"Glad you think so," she said, and half-danced towards me, "wouldn't want to…" she bit her lip, "disappoint."  
She wouldn't, of course. I didn't have all that much expectation to live up to. Rita had put the kids to bed, so she'd have to be back here by morning. We were going to enjoy a meal at a newly opened sushi-place, sleep at Rita's place, and then we'd have breakfast tomorrow morning, our ways parting when she had to drop the kids off for school and I had to go to work.

I find it hard to smile in the proper way one is supposed to when their dinner-partner is unable to properly use chopsticks. In the end, I ended up pretending I hadn't noticed and we talked about the sweet-nothings, that had become an important part of our conversations.  
Work? No complaints there, moving on.  
The kids? Cody was – according to his teacher – bored and disinclined to do his assignments. Astor was dutiful and – as always – her teachers praised her as 'the perfect student,' though they'd reminded Rita, that a young girl should be more social than the introvert Astor was.  
"You still going to the meetings?" Rita asked, skewering a piece of nagiri with one chopstick.  
"Didn't have time this weekend," I admitted, "And the workload _is_ heavy…" I started, then spotted the slight difference in Rita's body that I'd learned to fear., "B…but, I've got some time tomorrow night," I hastily decided to be the right answer.  
"Found a new sponsor yet?" Rita asked, still not quite placated.  
"No… After Lila, I think I'll take some more time to _evaluate_ my potential sponsor" I said, stalling.  
"Yes," Rita said, thoughtfully., "It must've been terrible, really. To have a person you were supposed to be able to trust take advantage of you when you were at your weakest, and then trying to harm the kids." She shuddered. "Think of what could've happened."  
I had – of course – already thought those thoughts many, many times. And Lila West – the Artist Formerly Known as Lila Tournay – lay on the bottom of the ocean because of it.

The kids were still sleeping, of course. It was 1 o'clock – only a few hours since we'd left – and the moon stood high in the sky. I parked the car in front of the house, knowing from experience that trying to park both my minivan and Rita's car in the driveway was impossible for any mortal man.  
"Thanks for a lovely dinner," Rita said as she got out of the car.  
"My pleasure," I said, beaming her a smile.  
We walked towards the house and made a beeline for the bedroom. I don't know why it's always like this. We never agree to go out and then have sex afterwards, but somehow neither of us ever needs to ask. We just _know_. And tonight was no exception; I knew what would happen and I must admit that it _was_ growing on me.

Rita, I thought – as I sat on her bed – wasn't exactly a supermodel and would in all likelihood never become one, yet she _was_ quite attractive. Modern beauty standards would say that she needed to lose a little weight, get a bit of colour in her cheeks, wear more make-up and probably dye her hair. I – thankfully – have never felt constrained by what society wanted me to like, and to me she was nothing if not beautiful.  
She was putting away her earrings, walking around the room half-naked; wearing only a set of plain, white panties.  
I watched her, smiling.

Lying next to her, a hand on her stomach, I ran my fingers from her navel in circles out until my fingers seemed to take a mind of their own and spread out. Rita was tracing my across my upper arms and my torso with a finger, smiling blissfully. My eyes locked on her lips and suddenly _that_ felt like the most important thing, and I moved in to place a kiss on her upper lip. Apparently, she didn't _quite_agree because my lips were greeted by a tongue, and I responded in kind, watching her eyes close, as our tongues explored one-another.  
If my mouth hadn't been busy, I would've grinned, I am sure, but instead I simply continued to kiss her, closing my eyes, as my right hand reached down and began its work. The effect was seemingly immediate and I could hear moans of pleasure forcing their way into her breathing. I broke the kiss and lifted myself up, looking down at her, as I fingered her.

Perhaps it's another sign, that I am not like other men, but _this_ was the most enjoyable part of sex for me. Sure, like everyone else I enjoyed the occasional blowjob, but making someone twist and shiver in pleasure and orgasm repeatedly while still being able to watch her, without the distraction of being on the verge of coming myself, but the _control_ given to me here was undeniable. Band besides, it was a good way to open her up.

"I should probably get up now," Rita said, looking at the alarm, though there was still half-an-hour until she absolutely _had_ to get up. We were lying up against each other, our legs still entwined and our noses nearly touching.  
"You probably should, yea," I said, too tired to think of anything clever to say. Then, as she rolled away from me, onto her back I had an idea; I rolled with her. "You say, and then you lie on top of me?" she asked. "I said you probably _should_ not that I'd let you," I said, winking.  
She opened her mouth to say something and I interrupted her by kissing Her, and judging by the energy and eagerness she managed to express with her tongue, I was sure whatever argument she' had had, had just been crushed. Still, I rolled away and let her get up.

AUTHOR NOTE:  
Thanks to Savaial from AFF for beta-reading this chapter!


	6. Help Yourself

"Hey, bro! What's up?"  
'Deb,' I thought wearily. , 'This day is going to be a long one.'  
"What do you want?" I asked in my friendliest possible voice, disappointed in myself that a slight edge of annoyance snuck its way into my otherwise flawless impression. "Vince's bringing the donuts today, if that's what you're after."  
"Are you coming to the Lieutenant's thing tonight?" she asked casually, though I sensed a hint of anxiety. LaGuerta had invited Doakes' family, friends (I was very surprised, when I first heard that) and colleagues.  
Somehow, when LaGuerta said to me: "he would've wanted you to be there,." I had doubted that Doakes would've truly wanted the man who'd imprisoned him, drugged him and ultimately led his murderer to him. Then again, I didn't want to be _impolite_ by refusing an invitation. "I suppose so. Why?"  
"Then you've got to help me," she said, pleading. , "I have no fucking clue what to do!"  
I remained silent, waiting for her to proceed.  
"Do you bring gifts or don't you? Dress all in dark? Make a speech? C'mon, Dex, I really need you here."  
Funny how people ask _me_ for advice on what one is supposed to do, as though I would know. "I honestly don't know, Deb. Listen, just show up, show your support and you'll do great. Alright?" I said lamely, trying to make it sound as though I was telling her something she didn't already know.  
"Alright," She said. "See you at work." She hung up.

I would be spending the day recreating the bloodsplatter of my newest colleague's crime scene. It probably wouldn't be all that difficult, I imagined. I knew the type of murder-weapon, and the projected blood left only doubt about minor details. Really, going through these motions were a mere formality, but it allowed me to avoid pinching my face in sorrow all day, whenever the name Doakes was brought up. Also, if my colleague had been confident enough to leave behind the bloodstained knife, then he probably had one or two tricks up his sleeve, and that made me nervous. The only cure for nervousness is certainty that you knew more than your opponent.  
So, I had requested an identical knife – taking up a few dollars from our meagre budget – and began what the Service-minded Sergeant had once called 'a crazy two-step knife dance.' The knife went easily through the body of the dummy, spraying red-coloured liquid upon the walls.  
I began my examination by first mimicking a member trained in US military knife-techniques, and while it _did_ have some resemblance, there were blood projected in directions that would've been near-impossible to create with the quick stabbing motions that were so characteristic of people who only attacked to kill. No sense of artistry.  
It took a great deal of experimentation before I had deduced the entire procedure, and I nodded with approval. The strokes – I deduced – were long, had moved in a circle not unlike that of a roundhouse punch, had been directed at the sides, the head, the groin and the wrist. Interesting, as stabbing motions usually happened in straight lines, rather than in curves. Based on the coroners report, the stabs would've happened in a quite rapid succession – my analysis of the spatter confirmed it – and both his report and my experience told me that a combination of any two of the strikes would've been fatal.  
Seemed that this person likely _had_ killed before, after all, but that he had never had to clean up after himself. 'Interesting,' I thought to myself, 'If Doakes wasn't dead, I knew who my suspect would be.,'  
Then again, I was already scheduled to meet his family and I'm not one to deviate from a plan.

I realized that I'd never seen LaGuerta's home before and was pleasantly surprised. How she could afford such a place on a cop's salary was beyond me. Maybe she'd gotten rich on the stock market? No matter, I told myself, I was an apartment person anyway.  
There weren't as many people there as I would've expected – LaGuerta could convince people to see things her way most of the time, and Doakes had been her dearest friend – but I counted Deb, Masouka, and Angel from the department, LaGuerta herself and a group of people I guessed was Doakes' family. It was strange, really, but I had never been able to see Doakes as a family man, but several of them seemed quite upset.  
"His sisters," Deb explained to me, "and his mom. Can you imagine that," she said, turning towards me, "having a brother who's a freakin' serial killer?" she whispered.  
"I've seen the look in your eyes when you're wrestling me for the remote," I responded jokingly.  
"You ass." Deb said, punching me in the shoulder. I winced. However it was possible, those thin arms and thin frame made her able to pack the same punch as a speeding truck.  
"Dexter?"  
I turned around and looked into LaGuerta's mournful face and then my eyes moved to the woman at her side, "This is Awa Barak, James' cousin."  
"My condolences," I said, annoyed that I could never get the proper amount of sorrow and awkwardness. Awa, still dark-skinned but looking more middle-eastern than Afro-American, looked almost like a grieving widow. Her dark, brown curls framed a mournful face, set with emerald eyes and unpainted lips. Just standing near her made it clear to me that she wasn't someone who beat about the bush.  
"Do you think he did it?"  
"Well," I began, unsure about how to answer, "the evidence _is_ compelling, but there are admit–"  
"So no." she said. It wasn't a question. "Did you know," she continued, "that the only person I have ever known James to hate, actually_hate_ was you, Dexter Morgan?"  
"He assaulted me, stalked me for weeks and harassed me. I'm not going to pretend him and I were buddies, but it _does_ surprise me that I get that particular place of honour," I said, smoothly I thought.  
"Well answered," she acknowledged. , "But, I would expect so. James wasn't ever the diplomatic type," she continued with a chuckle, "and you work in a lab to top it off. Knowing him, I'm surprised he didn't slice _you_ up while he was at it."  
The way she talked about the subject, having elegantly landed the conversation of the terror that was the Bay Harbour Butcher, while talking of her own cousin as a murderer, was frightening. She didn't tense, freeze or pause while she spoke, even about this sort of topic. Admirable.  
"So you think he did it?" I asked, somewhat uncertain.  
"Let me put it to you like this, Dexter. : Even if he didn't kill those people, he _has_ killed _other_ people and now that he's dead, buried and posthumously convicted, there's nothing more to that story"  
I want to say that I was shocked, but I am not quite sure if that was what I was feeling.  
"Drink?" I asked.  
"Help yourself."


	7. Notice!

I am having some serious formatting issues on , so if you want to read the remainder of the story (or the continuation at least), please go to .?no=600093914

While this puts an age-limit upon the readership on my story, I hope that no one is inconvenienced by this.

P.S. I absolutely love how things went down at the end of Season 3.  
Only critiques about the season:  
1) From the first moment I saw Miguel, I thought him an absolute pain in the ***, so anything he did, good or ill, I hated him for it.  
2) Drawing references from the two previous seasons to underline some character development is good and fine, but it has to have more impact (The "Debora-Harry" schism)  
3) Still no Cody/Astor sociopathy manifestation! Argh! In season 4, with a kid on the way, it'll be an ideal plot twist to introduce, of course.  
4) Angels character development was good at first, but once the waters settled, he seems more bland than before.  
5) I miss our (and LaGuerta's) Wolfe. She had so much story potential.


End file.
